To The Stars
by No Petrol Required
Summary: Corporal/fighter pilot Steven Rogers can't wait to escape England, to get into the action and do what he's always dreamt of: fighting for his country, for their freedom. So when his squad's mission is postponed, he's devastated. But when he gets to truly know a worker from the local pub a bit better, a man named James Barnes.. Steve figures he can wait a while longer. (slash, AU)


_**A.N.: Hey guys! Long time no.. talk? Read? **_

_**Anyways. I apologize for my hiatus. I got locked out of my account. Lame, right? But now that I've got it back, I'm back in action! This is something that I've been writing over the past week, a WWII AU in which Steve is a fighter pilot and Bucky is a bartender. There's no Captain America. There's no HYDRA. There's just Axis and Allied powers at war. Disclaimer that these characters do not belong to me, and that there's the possibility that someone might die.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

The English night was surprisingly calm, serene, the only disturbance being a bit of a biting chill to it that nipped eagerly at the alabaster skin of his face. A thin fog hung in the air, reaching out with wispy limbs to try and catch his own, attempting futilely to cling to him, his pressed-and-starched navy green uniform, and keep him in place. It ran its fingers through his short cropped mess of golden locks, leaving a few stray strands that hung by his forehead a bit damp to the touch.

Crossing his arms tightly over his chest, tucking his hands near his armpits, Corporal Steven Rogers let out a small huff. His breath was a small puffof condensation, like a cumulus cloud that hovered around him for a moment before dissipating into nothingness. Born and raised in New York, he was used to cold winters, but not the dreariness of Great Britain. Luckily for him, it was his last night in the blasted hellhole before he could finally go into battle. It was what he wanted to do for as long as he could remember: serve his country, fight for freedom. He trained diligently at boot camp, climbed the ranks easily once he got shipped out, eventually ending up as a fighter pilot. And in the morning, he and his fellow aviators would be sent straight into the center of the battle.

Trudging forward, his boots crunching through a light coating of ice crystals on the pavement, Steve pushed open the heavy wooden door of the local pub with his back. Immediately, he was greeted by a general aura of.. cheeriness. It was something that seemed to be long eradicated by the war, spare a few places that managed to keep a bit of joy in their lives. The battle was taxing for everyone, draining them of anything but worry, fear, anxiety. But this bar was lively, a dozen side conversations going at once. It was a buzz of chatter, some people drunkenly slurring, others laughing heartily like they didn't have a bother in the world to worry about. The bartender slung around frothy pints encased in thick glass mugs, sliding them down the mahogany bar, handing them out to patrons who staggered up to him asking for another round.

Smiling softly, almost to himself, the American took a seat near the end of the structure. A small laugh elicited from his lips as he looked around in something bordering wonder, his steel blue-gray eyes wide and sparkling with a happiness he hadn't felt in a long time. The man behind the counter loped over to him, wiping out the inside of a freshly washed mug with a rag. A bit huskily, he grumbled, "Y'gonna drink, soldier? Can I get y'somethin'?"

"Uh.." Swallowing hard, Steve cleared his throat, shaking his head slowly in an attempt to get a grip. Now wasn't the time to lose himself in the comforting surroundings that he delved into so easily. It was his last leisure night to enjoy anything, really. So he had to make it count. Opening his rose-tinged lips to speak, he managed to start, "I'll take—"

"He'll take a pint, and I'll take another." Brows furrowing in surprise, Steve whirled around in his stool, gaze shooting up to glance at whoever decided to interrupt him. When he took in the sight of the man, his breathing caught on the back of his throat. He was.. almost indescribably beautiful. From the hairpin curve of his shell pink lips to the gentle cleft in his chin, his sharp jawline and amazingly pale eyes, there was something about the man that struck Steve as pure. Almost trustworthy, a trait that was damn hard to come by nowadays.

It didn't hit him that he was awkwardly gawking until the unnamed man flushed a bit, crinkling his nose before taking the seat beside him. Flustered by his rudeness, Steve glanced downwards, his own cheeks flaming with a scarlet hue as he mumbled sheepishly, "Oh, I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to stare." Raising a hand, he rubbed the back of his neck, closing his eyes and sighing, the sound of it almost inaudible.

"No, no, it's alright." The man– a seemingly normal civilian, Steve quickly noted, noticing his plainly clothed body– shot him a quick, crooked grin, sounding more amused than anything. It was enough to make his heartbeat flutter in his temples, the organ seeming to beat hard enough against his breastbone to jump right out of his chest. "James Barnes, pleasure to meet you. And you are?"

"Steven Rogers. Er, call me Steve." Hanging his head, the blonde cursed at himself internally. Now was /not/ the time to be an awkward little schmuck. But he couldn't really help himself. The man, James, he was stunning. It was an immediate attraction that he'd never felt towards anyone before. And he was just some nerdy boy from Brooklyn that couldn't talk to anyone he was even vaguely interested in. "Corporal. Fighter pilot, actually. Tonight's my last night before I ship out to fight in Central Europe."

"Really?" The man perked up visibly at his words, taking his attention off of Steve onto to glance at and thank the burly bartender for their drinks. He pushed Steve's beer towards him, taking his own mug in his hand and taking a long swig of the amber-colored alcohol. "That's.. incredible. I hardly know what to say." His near-speechlessness was clear even in his expression, easy to read like a book as he searched desperately for anything to say while wiping a coating of foam off from above his upper lip with the back of his hand.

"I get to do what I've always dreamt of. I get to serve our country." Raising his mug, Steve finally met the brunette's eyes once more. "Cheers, James. To freedom, to the future of the world. To the safety of all our troops. Here's to hoping they all get to go home."

"Here, here." Clinking his glass carefully to the other man's, the aforementioned man took one last, long drink before setting it back down. He stared into the depths of the brew before saying quietly, "And Steve? Call me Bucky."

Steve could practically feel his throat constrict at the casual tone of Bucky's voice. It sounded like the kind someone used on a person they'd known their whole life, a childhood friend that they grew up with. Nodding, he said a bit hesitantly, "Alright, Bucky. I can do that."

—

The next day, Corporal Steven Rogers was absolutely fuming. He stormed around the town square, mouth set into a straight line. Lips pressed tightly together, he kept his jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as he tried to suppress his emotions, to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at anyone. Their entire squad's descent into the battle had been postponed, for reasons unknown to him.

The activities of the night before were on the back burner for him, simmering away steadily as the rage-filled pot of his indignation boiled over on the front. He wanted so desperately, more than anything, to join his men in Germany, France, anywhere. He wanted to do something to help the good of his country.

But instead, he found himself back at the same pub as the last night, sitting in the same seat. Bucky was but a distant memory at the moment, hazy, vague in his mind. Glaring at the nicked top of the wooden counter, Steve didn't even bother to look up when someone took a seat by his side. His voice a low, guttural sound, he growled, "Do you mind? I'm not in the mood."

"Steve?" At the sound of the already-too-familiar voice, Steve finally looked up and into the eyes of a concerned Bucky. His oceanic eyes were filled with worry as he even reached out and put a hand on the other's stiff, rigid shoulder. "Hey, what happened? I thought you were going to be shipped out again today."

"We have to wait." In something that was a ghost, a bitter mockery of the usual sound, Steve chuckled dully, giving his head the faintest of shakes. "They won't even tell us why."

"Well.." Using his free hand to signal that he wanted a beer, Bucky gave Steve's shoulder a kindly squeeze. "How about after we drink these beers, we head out? It's midday, and we shouldn't be getting drunk quite yet. And anyways, I want to get your mind off of things."

"Oh?" Cocking a brow, Steve relaxed a bit under the man's touch. It was warm, comforting, soothing the ragged ends of his frayed nerves. Pursing his lips curiously, he ran the tip of his tongue over them before asking, "What do you have in mind?"

The brunette sat up, making a playfully disapproving cluck with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Come on, Steve," he teased half-heartedly, nudging the man with his elbow. "I can't give away my secrets. Just.. will you trust me with this? I promise, it'll be fun."

Steve gazed deep into Bucky's pleading eyes, even moments after he had finished speaking. There was still that genuine radiance that glowed within him, sparking something inside him that he couldn't name. Nodding curtly in affirmation, he said, "I'll trust you."

"Good. Now drink up!" Bucky's voice was slightly accented, Steve catching into the fact that his vocabulary was peppered with some of the pronunciations of words much like the loyal people. Likely wasn't a native, but he'd lived here for a long while. Playing with his own mug, he stated firmly, "We're going to have a grand ol' time, Corporal Rogers."

Steve couldn't help but allow a brilliant, toothy, goofy beam take over his features, for he actually, truly believed the man.


End file.
